“EVERY ENDING IS A NEW BEGINNING. YOUR LUCKY NUMBER IS NONE. YOUR LUCKY COLOUR IS DEAD. Motto: LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON.”

“At the end of the street was a large glass box with a female mannequin inside it, dressed as a gypsy fortune teller.“Now,” said Wednesday, “at the start of any quest or enterprise it behooves us to consult the Norns.”He dropped a coin into the slot. With jagged, mechanical motions, the gypsy lifted her arm and lowered it once more. A slip of paper chunked out of the slot.Wednesday took it, read it, grunted, folded it up and put it in his pocket.“Aren’t you going to show it to me? I’ll show you mine,” said Shadow.“A man’s fortune is his own affair,” said Wednesday, stiffly. “I would not ask to see yours.”Shadow put his own coin into the slot. He took his slip of paper. He read it.EVERY ENDING IS A NEW BEGINNING.YOUR LUCKY NUMBER IS NONE.YOUR LUCKY COLOUR IS DEAD. Motto:LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON.Shadow made a face. He folded the fortune up and put it inside his pocket.”

“You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.”

“Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, “casualties may rise to a million.” With individual stories, the statistics become people - but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless.”

“It was the end of the October term of my sophomore year, and everything was petty normal, except for Social Studies, which was no big surprise. Mr. Dimas, who taught the class, had a reputation for unconventional teaching methods. For midterms he had blindfolded us, then had us each stick a pin in a map of the world and we got to write essays on wherever the pin stuck. I got Decatur, Illinois. Some of the guys complained because they drew places like Ulan Bator or Zimbabwe. They were lucky. YOU try writing ten thousand words on Decatur, Illinois.”

“Recounting the strange is like telling one's dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream, but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can colour one's entire day.”

“None of this is truly happening," he said to Shadow. He sounded miserable. "It's all in your head. Best not to think of it.”